


#fuckmestraps

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Masturbation, Other, Technology, flirting that isn’t really flirting, hashtags, old man sending naked selfies, really terrible jokes, uniform porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha snaps a photo and creates a hashtag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#fuckmestraps

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Author’s Note: Our dear notsomolly made the original request, which I filled, but in discussion with disappointme I was inspired to try a redux. It got out of hand. Special thanks to whispersofafangirl, notsomolly, talewt, mamas-happy-place, and archwrites for their total lack of sympathy and genuinely appreciated enthusiasm for this train wreck and its godawful title. I'm sorry, folks, but I'm not sorry enough.

"Oh, the girls are going to go _wild_ for the fuck-me straps, Rogers," Natasha drawls, smiling what Steve thinks of as her _Spy Smile_. She plucks at the new shoulder harness and lets out a breath that might be a laugh.

Steve frowns at her. "It's for the shield." He needs to be able to carry the shield when he's not using it.

"Of _course_ it is." Still smirking, she reaches up to wrap her hands around each strap of the harness and yanks as hard as it takes to drag him closer.

Within kissing distance. He can smell her shampoo and see that her lip balm needs reapplying. He jerks away from her. "Do you need something, Natasha?"

She lets her hands fall away from him, but that smile doesn't go anywhere. "When's your press conference to show off the new uniform?"

Steve sighs, pushing his hand through his hair. He's still not used to the new length and definitely isn't convinced that barber-- _stylist_ , he reminds himself--knew what he was doing when he said that this was fashionable. "I'm not having one. This is supposed to be a covert ops uniform."

Natasha cocks a fine brow at him. "So why not wear black like the rest of us?"

Shrugging, he doesn't look at her. He busies himself with adjusting the gloves and tightening the strap around his wrist.

He won't let himself wonder what Bucky would think of the new uniform. (And his hair, and his bank account, and the shiny new bike he bought off the lot last week just because he wanted it and there was no reason not to get it.)

"Hey, keep your secrets if you want, Cap. Only--"

He glances at her, barely concealing his irritation. Natasha has learned how to push his buttons and she seems to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in doing so. "What?" he snaps.

She's got her phone out and she's grinning at him again. "Smile!" she says cheerfully.

He scowls.

The flash goes off and there's the little electronic sound that's supposed to mimic the shutter of a real camera, and before he can process what she's done, Natasha is turning and walking away.

"What are you going to do with that?" he calls after her.

"Don't you worry your pretty head about it, Captain," she calls back.

***

 

Worrying about Natasha's plans never goes well for him. He's learned not to worry; instead, he moves on to other things, and he waits for her plan to make itself known, and he resolves to deal with it when it does. He doesn't have to wait long.

After the fitting, he goes home on that shiny new bike. He cooks for himself--it's easier now, with recipes and techniques and even full lessons literally at this fingertips--and he settles at the table to read the newspaper. He's not quite ready to get _all_ of his news on a screen.

Newsprint reminds him of home. (Of Peggy. Of Bucky.)

He doesn't notice the setting sun until it's already dark. He looks up slowly and blinks at the window a few times, clearing his vision. He was lost in the past again. It's time to remind himself where he is-- _when_ he is. He finds his little notebook in his jacket and takes it and the laptop computer into the living room.

Google, he has discovered, knows everything. Natasha's phrase "fuck me straps" turns up a whole first page of dirty videos, naked men on their hands and knees while their women use toys on them--Steve smirks as he clicks on the first video, wondering what Natasha would think if she knew. (He gets the sense she's trying to scandalize him and he wonders if she'd be scandalized if she saw his search history. It's so much easier to be curious about anything now.) His Internet adventures have gone worse, he thinks, and settles in to watch several of the videos. It's not his thing; he understands the appeal, but the melancholy sets in too quickly, leaving him feeling hollow.

He clicks back all the way to the search page and reminds himself that dwelling won't do anyone any good.

Steve tries the search one more time, telling himself he'll go through more than the first page of Google results until he can find another example of what Natasha meant, but he doesn't have to. This time, his picture pops up in the images search preview at the top of the page. He sees the pound sign he's become familiar with through Natasha's text messages, and...

No.

She _wouldn't_.

He clicks a link.

She _did_.

There's the picture Natasha snapped, posted to her Twitter with _#fuckmestraps_ the only text.

Since the Chitauri, the media has had a field day with the "love triangle" he, Natasha, and Clint are "caught up in." He doesn't like it, but he didn't like the propaganda machine in 1943, either; there was nothing he could do then and there's even less he can do now. But there's no reason to fuel the frenzy and Natasha's choice of words is not, in Steve's opinion, a good one. He reaches for his phone and sends off a message.

_You shouldn't have done that._

She texts back immediately. _;-)_

Steve frowns at his phone. Natasha doesn't care much for what people think of her and he knows that--she's got a short list of opinions that matter to her and he's pretty sure he doesn't make that list. But he can already imagine the headlines ( _BLACK WIDOW CONFIRMS ROMANCE WITH CAPTAIN AMERICA_ and _WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE, BLACK WIDOW! THAT'S CAPTAIN AMERICA YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT_ ) and he's not looking forward to the "briefing" Fury will want to give them on the importance of respecting the work of SHIELD's public relations staff.

He sighs. It's done now. But if they have to sit through one of Fury's lectures, she owes him coffee.

He's not thinking about coffee when he clicks on the trending tag. He's curious, he tells himself. That's all. Twitter and the other microblogging sites have been invaluable when it comes to understanding modern culture. If there's anything to learn about public opinion of Natasha's photo and tag, it'll be there.

The first drawing is all it takes to halt his exploration.

According to the timestamp on Natasha's post, the photo has only been up for a couple of hours. Not long at all, but in this world, two hours is long enough for someone to draw the pornographic version. Steve isn't surprised at all. One of his first Google searches had been on himself and apparently _Captain America porn parodies_ have been popular since the 1950s. They don't seem much like parodies to him, but there is evidently a fine line between parody and defamation, and there is just too much of the stuff to make sending the lawyers after every creator a viable option. It doesn't bother him much. He'd sold war bonds in tights and short shorts, his character was about as defamed as it could be and he'd done it to himself. Generally, no one is getting hurt, and it seems to him that a lot of people are getting a lot of good out of it. (Mostly pretty girls, but he tamps down the bitter little voice inside that wants to know where all those pretty girls were when he was 5'4" and a hundred pounds soaking wet.) The only time he was bothered by what he'd seen online had been back a year ago, when the photos SHIELD had planted for Natasha's Stark Enterprises mission had gotten out, and he couldn't watch or read any news without seeing Natasha in lingerie.

She didn't need his protection, but that didn't stop him from feeling angry at the violation on her behalf. He'd steered clear of the Internet searches those few weeks, until the "scandal" had died down. The Internet, he'd learned, wasn't something he could fight.

So he's not surprised to see himself painted in loving detail, naked except for the fingerless gloves and the harness on his shoulders, looking at the viewer like he'd like to be eaten alive.

He isn't even surprised when his dick hardens in his sweatpants. (He pretends he doesn't understand why his new body does it for him, but there's a reason the mirror in his bedroom is positioned for the best view _of_ the bed _from_ the bed.)

The only thing that surprises him is the inaccuracy. He takes himself in hand, staring at the paining, and his final clear thought is _but I have hair there_.

 

***

 

The next morning, in the hall outside Fury's office, he plants his fists on his hips and stops Natasha walking away with a stern, "You owe me coffee for that, Romanoff."

She turns and smirks at him, then jerks her head toward the elevator. "Come on. I haven't had breakfast, anyway."

There's a diner across the street from HQ where a lot of agents stop in and that's where she takes him. They're still recognized, of course--Steve sees the glances shot their way and hears a few more feminine giggles than he's used to--but no one bothers them. Natasha claims a booth for them and when he settles across the table from her, she smiles her small triumphant cat's smile at him.

"How was the Internet last night, Cap?"

He rolls his eyes. "You're a riot." He raises an eyebrow at her. "You know Huffpost picked up the gossip article? We're going to start having superbabies any day now and Clint's crying into his Starbucks over losing you."

She laughs, low and throaty and genuine.

He grins, but he doesn't get to say anything before the waitress comes by to take their order. Natasha asks for the breakfast special for both of them before he can stop her.

"Does fucking with me make you hungry or something?" he asks once their waitress is gone.

"Sitwell tried to stop us on our way out. He had _a file_. I'm not in any hurry to get back, how about you?"

Steve winces. Sitwell's briefings are even worse than Coulson's. "Not anymore." He sighs and leans back. "So why'd you do it?"

She shrugs. "You're a national treasure, I thought your adoring public deserved to see it."

He just looks at her.

Natasha looks offended. "I don't know why you're acting like you don't appreciate it."

Oh, he appreciates it, but she doesn't have to know that. He sighs and shakes his head.

 

***

 

When he goes to Lillian's office to drop off his expense report, he discovers that Natasha's release of intel is targeted as well as disseminated. Lillian doesn't close her email fast enough to hide the photo--and Natasha's short, more private message. Steve doesn't need to see every name in the _to_ field to know who else got the same email. This time, he doesn't even try to stay and exchange small talk, he just beats it out of there. For her sake and for his.

Natasha, it seems, is happy to choose her own missions.

***

 

Somehow, she seems heavier when she's kneeling on the small of his back. Natasha's hands are hard on his elbows where she's got his arms twisted up and behind and he's pretty sure he could get out of her hold, but not without hurting both of them.

From the corner of his eye, he watches her blow her hair out of her face and smirk at him. "You know Jessica, down in Ops?"

What he thinks is, _Really, Nat? Right now?_ What he says is, "I've seen her around."

"She was on the range with me this morning and asked if you were seeing anyone." She leans on him just a little harder, tweaking his arms in their sockets and digging her surprisingly bony knees into his kidneys.

He groans and he's not faking it. If he could, he'd tap out--this is not what he'd planned for this morning. "Did you tell her to read the papers?"

Natasha laughs at him, a sound like water rushing over rocks. "No one reads the papers anymore, Grandpa."

 

***

 

There's even more art the next time he searches. Some of it is so great he bookmarks the artists' sites and blogs to visit later. Some of it features guest stars. (He's tempted to send the ones of Natasha to her, because it serves her right, but even though she'd started all of this he still feels obligated to protect her--irrational as that is.) Some are so good his dick twitches in his pants, but now that he's reading the comments the artists attach to their work, the discussions of the hashtag and the photo itself, a repeat of the first night feels... wrong. It feels too much like taking something that doesn't belong to him. (Which is _absurd_ , because that's _his body_ , he should be allowed to beat off to his own body if he wants.)

A familiar restlessness sets in and he's thinking about a late-night run when his eyes come to rest on the new digital camera. He forgot about that. He'd bought _it_ on a whim, too, and brought it home and opened it up and realized he had no idea what he'd do with it--he wasn't a photographer. So he'd left it on his dresser.

Now he knows what to do with it.

By the time he's got his t-shirt and sweats off and he's got the harness and the gloves on, he's so hard he's leaking and his intentions take a backseat to more immediate needs. He almost forgets to turn the camera on and set it up, and even then, the first image it captures is his gloved hand wrapped around his dick. The mirror serves an extra purpose tonight, taking all the guesswork out of camera position, and he only barely remembers to press the record button before he starts pulling in earnest. One hand on his dick, one hand on his balls, and his eyes between the mirror and the reflection of the camera's preview screen.

 

***

 

If he had to guess, he'd say he's not the only one enjoying _#fuckmestraps_. The eyes on him in the lobby and the elevators he's used to, but he's never seen Kristen in the gym this early in the day, and Lillian and Jessica usually take their coffee break as he's coming back from his, not when he's leaving for it. His instinct is to keep his head down and pretend he doesn't know what they've seen, but his instincts were honed in a different time. So he fights them. He smiles at Kristen on his way to the locker room, and he nods and murmurs "ladies" when he passes Lillian and Jessica on his way out of the coffee shop.

And at lunch, when he scans the cafeteria and finds an empty table close enough to Tiffany, Michelle, and Melanie to hear their conversation if he's inclined to eavesdrop, he takes it. He sets his tablet on the table by his tray and brings up the online encyclopedia article on the Korean War, and he starts eating.

They sure aren't talking as much as he expected.

Natasha's tray clatters to the table across from him and she drops into one of the chairs. He glances at her tray--a sloppy double cheeseburger and more French fries than any one person should have in a week, let alone a single meal--and then at her. He makes a face.

"How can you eat like that?"

Her brow furrows briefly before she pops a fry into her mouth and shrugs. "You got a problem with the way I eat, Rogers?"

That's a minefield and he doesn't feel like having his head blown off today, thanks, so he just pretends they haven't started the conversation and goes back to his reading.

There's a grin in her voice when she asks, "Checking the trending tags on Twitter?"

He rolls his eyes. "Nope."

"You should. You're pretty popular right now."

"Not me." He looks up at her and flashes his best Captain America smile, even though it has never worked on her and probably never will. "Your hashtag."

Natasha's eyebrows go up high. "You know about hashtags? Now I _am_ impressed." She hefts her burger and takes an inelegant bite. She jerks her chin forward, toward the table behind him. "Tiffany, from the quartermaster's office?"

"Yeah."

"Her boyfriend just dumped her." She shakes her head in a mockery of sympathy. "Messy."

"That's too bad," Steve says, wary. He knows where this is going.

Natasha smirks at him. "She could _really_ use a good time, Cap."

"Yeah?"

Light of hope and victory brightens her eyes.

Steve shouldn't savor snuffing it out when he says, "Good luck finding someone to show it to her," but he can't help it.

Natasha glares at him. "We're going to get you a date. It _will_ happen." She pauses and tips her head as if examining him in a new light. "Is this about fairness? Because the girls don't mind sharing."

"Maybe I do," he says.

Her nose wrinkles like she smells something funny.

 

***

 

The cord that connects his new camera to his new TV is still wrapped in plastic inside the camera's box. He checks the blinds and the curtains in his living room to make sure they're closed--the television is _very_ large and he knows there are paparazzi and worse out there with telescopic lenses and infinite digital storage. Then he hooks the camera to the TV and turns it all on.

So maybe (definitely) Natasha is right about the harness and maybe (definitely) the girls online are right about the gloves. The video is only three minutes long, but that's long enough. He watches it twice before he finally spreads out on his couch and takes himself in hand to watch it one more time.

He lies there panting for a long time after, the screen frozen on his fingers wrapped around his shaft and his thumb swiping over the angry-red tip.

High definition just might be his favorite thing about the twenty-first century.

When his phone goes off with the little _ping_ of a message received, he reaches up and over the arm of the couch to get it from the end table.

Natasha. Of course. _The closed blinds just make you look guilty._

He snorts. He thumbs the little camera icon in the bottom corner of the screen to take a picture in response. If he bothers to give himself time to think about what he's doing (he's still orgasm-stupid, thinking is not something he's good at right now), he might reconsider. As it is, he switches to the front camera, checks that the harness is in frame and rests one gloved hand on his stomach, and snaps the picture. He adds _not for twitter #nofilter_ and hits send.

Natasha's close enough to see his windows, and that means she's on her way up. He rolls off the couch and has just enough time to unplug the camera and put it in a drawer and shut off the TV before she knocks on his door. He grabs a towel from the basket on the kitchen table and wraps it around his hips before he goes to let her in.

She's smiling what he thinks of as her _Girl Smile_ when he opens the door. She waves her phone at him. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think that was supposed to be some kind of come-on."

"Guess it's a good thing you do know better." He steps aside so she can sashay past him. "You here for a reason, comrade?" He's guessing mission, but with Natasha, there's really no certainty.

"Ha ha." She rolls her eyes and scans the living room, looking--he guesses--for proof of what he was doing.

As if the photo isn't proof enough.

She doesn't seem to find what she wants, so she sighs and glances at him. "Suit up, Cap. Hawkeye's bringing the jet to us. Bad men are doing bad things in Boston tonight."

Steve starts for his bedroom. He drops the towel before he closes the door and calls back to her, "Oh, good. I love cream pie."

 

***

 

The deadline for this pay period's expense reports is still hours away, but he's not sure he'll be back before then and accounting is on the way to ops. Steve ducks into Lillian's office with a smile on his face and his paperwork in hand. She starts guiltily when she sees him. Her cheeks go pink and she sucks that ring through her lip right into her mouth.

Steve struggles with a smirk. And here he'd been worried Natasha would think he meant she couldn't share at all.

He plasters on his best Captain America smile and leans over a little too much, invading her personal space. He leaves his thumb hooked into his belt and taps his fingers on the stiff fabric of his fly idly--as if he doesn't know what he's doing. He sets his packet deliberately on her desk, right next to where she's clutching her computer's mouse.

"Here's everything for this week, ma'am. Thanks."

And if he puts a little more sway in his hips and shoulders when he walks away, well, what's she going to do about it?


End file.
